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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25272622">Summer 1972</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterrisks/pseuds/asterrisks'>asterrisks</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rusty Lake | Cube Escape (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Spoilers, Suicide Attempt, harvey cameo can you spot her, i turned case 23 and theatre into a story, kind of, minimal editing happened, rusty lake is a weird place</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:15:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,404</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25272622</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterrisks/pseuds/asterrisks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the strangest case Dale had ever seen in his long career as a homicide detective.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Summer 1972</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The last time I posted a fic was nearly a year ago (haha ha) but I saw that there were only 30 something rusty lake fics on here and resolved to add one more</p><p>I cannot believe that I listened to the official soundtracks while writing this and it still turned out bland</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dale Vandermeer is tired. It shows in the shadows under his eyes, the stubble that creeps over his chin, the deep creases in his brown suit. He would rest, if not for the crawling sensation over his neck every time he closes his eyes. As if someone, or some<em>thing</em>, behind him, is watching—</p><p> </p><p>No. He needs to compose himself. (Take a deep breath. Who is he?)</p><p> </p><p>Dale Vandermeer. 41. A homicide detective. (What is he doing?)</p><p> </p><p>The normal. Working on a case.</p><p> </p><p>(…)</p><p> </p><p>Well, nothing was quite <em>normal</em> anymore, ever since taking on the one from last fall. Case 23. (At least you’ve admitted it. Now go over the scene.)</p><p> </p><p>The woman was sprawled elegantly on the ground, blood pooling from the slit in her neck. No weapon in sight, which had convinced authorities that it was murder. The room itself was oddly decorated; Dale assumed that the victim had a peculiar taste in interior design. He filed away in his head to ask someone if the wallpaper meant anything.</p><p> </p><p>The detective turned towards the doorway that led to the other room, and blinked. Then the doorway was gone.</p><p> </p><p>What?</p><p> </p><p>Dale blinked again, then rubbed his eyes. The doorway was gone. He had sworn there was another room. Another blink. Nothing but wallpaper.</p><p> </p><p>Something clearly felt <em>wrong</em>, but Dale, steering his thoughts toward normalcy, slipped on his gloves and investigated both the body and the room. One discovery after another had brought him to the telephone number in the newspaper.</p><p> </p><p>For all his years of experience, he was no stranger to quick leads. It should have reassured him, yet the little wiggle of dread in his stomach remained.</p><p> </p><p><em>-Hello? </em>The voice on the other side was garbled, croaky, masculine.</p><p> </p><p>-Hello, this is detective Dale Vandermeer.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>-Yes?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Dale paused, noting that the supposed mental health institution was clearly abnormal in choosing a crow in human skin as the receptionist. He needed to investigate further.</p><p> </p><p>-Is this Rusty Lake?</p><p> </p><p><em>-Say the word.</em> The syllables came out broken and monotone.</p><p> </p><p>Dale had looked down at the institution’s advertisement, searched for a clue. He spoke a four-lettered word into the receiver, voice tilting up at the end in question.</p><p> </p><p><em>-I am sorry. Your place is already taken.</em> The man on the other end hung up.</p><p> </p><p>And then the woman’s body had <em>gone up into the ceiling</em>, leaving behind a dark cloud of bugs that took him to the safe with the photos. Barely suppressing panic, the detective had asked the policemen standing outside to completely seal off the house and headed to his office with the photo archive tightly tucked under his arm, sweat gathering in the palms of his hands. The gloves weighed heavily in his pocket.</p><p> </p><p>Which led him to the current situation- a corkboard covered in pictures, shadows under his eyes, and a suspect in the adjacent room.</p><p> </p><p>It is now summer.</p><p> </p><p>Dale exhales, now composed. (Good. Check on the suspect.)</p><p> </p><p>He walks over to the little window to turn the blinds, exposing a man, handcuffed and slumped in a chair. A policeman stands near the man, baton swinging ever so slightly at his side.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Aldous Vanderboom puts down the receiver. The clock in the mill shakes and rattles hideously until he opens it. A woman's body tumbles onto the wooden floor. He is unfazed.</p><p> </p><p>The lake requires memories, after all.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>When the detective had tracked down Laura Vanderboom's ex-boyfriend in the tiny bar slash theatre, Robert Hill looked as if he had given up. On what, Dale had yet to find out. The woman’s death had been in the news for a short period of time before it was swallowed up by other headlines.</p><p> </p><p>Dale had run the facts through his head before sitting next to the other man at the bar.</p><p> </p><p>Robert Hill. 40. Unemployed after being fired from his job at Johnsson Bird Food for a misdemeanor.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Leave me alone. I just want a drink.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Dale slid a screwdriver over to him, waited until he’d sipped at it, then asked about Laura. Hill told him about their break-up in a café. After another gulp, Hill switched tracks and rambled about his preferences in donuts and coffee.</p><p> </p><p>“Does the name Rusty Lake mean anything to you?”</p><p> </p><p>A pause. <em>“What do you want, detective?” </em></p><p> </p><p>Hill fumbled with his pocket, pulled out a picture and slapped it on the table. It was a moonlit shot of Laura in the dress she had died in. The other man flipped over the picture to show Dale the words written on the other side. She had mentioned a lake. There was no date.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you ever meet her after she came back?”</p><p> </p><p><em>“No.”</em> Hill’s face contorted in anguish, eyebrows drawn together with regret. He looked into the bottom of the empty glass.</p><p> </p><p>There was a brief period of sympathetic silence. Dale racked his head for another question.</p><p> </p><p>Then, inexplicably, Hill pulled a pistol out of his pocket and shot himself in the head.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Corrupted souls happen. It’s not something that Aldous has any particular control over, the extraction of memories. Still, when the woman’s body transforms in the mill and leaves a path of blood and ruffled feathers in its wake, he feels as if the lake is in preparation for something new.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Dale knew in his gut that Robert Hill wasn’t responsible for Laura’s death, but the timing in which he had shot himself was too suspicious. It raised questions. Unfortunately, the detective wouldn’t be able to get anything out of the other man ever again. By some miracle, Hill was still alive, but unable to recall anything about the woman. As if the bullet had stolen all his memories of her.</p><p> </p><p>Still, the higher-ups wanted Hill arrested, to maintain the appearance of progress being made. The detective complied, knowing that refusal could get him taken off the case, so now Hill sits right outside the detective’s office, a healing hole in the haggard man’s head.</p><p> </p><p>Rusty Lake is the answer to all his unanswered questions. That much is clear. Dale looks at the corkboard. It’s a mess of photos and red marker, providing a location but no hint as to who owns the land.</p><p> </p><p><em>This</em> is his normal now. Searching for a woman whose body disappeared in front of his eyes, for a killer connected to this place that has no roots to grab on to and follow. The detective closes the blinds, Hill’s diminished figure and the burly policeman folding away until it is just his reflection in the window.</p><p> </p><p>Time to get back to work. But first, a nice cup of coffee would do.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>All that you touch, you change.</em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Ah, much better.” Dale feels energy seep into his body, and the prickling sensation at his neck abates. The ceiling fan whirs slowly. He throws himself into work.</p><p> </p><p>After a long, long time poring over maps and hints, he gets to the little television shoved to one side of the office. He rarely uses the machine, preferring the larger one in the lobby, which relies on dials rather than levers. But the investigation has long exceeded his comfort zone, so he strides over and fiddles with the mechanics. Before long, he gets something on the fuzzy screen.</p><p> </p><p>It’s an image of Robert Hill from the adjacent room, looking the same way before Dale closed the blinds. He blinks.</p><p> </p><p>Hill’s head snaps up, engulfed in a black cloud. Dale startles like a rabbit and feels goosebumps on his arms even through the suit. Two shining circles poke out like eyes as the rest of Hill is transformed into the same dark mass. The screen goes static.</p><p> </p><p>Heart beating abnormally fast, Dale rushes over to the blinds and—</p><p> </p><p>It’s awful. The policeman swings from a noose (where the <em>hell</em> did that come from?) and Hill is nowhere in sight—</p><p> </p><p>The black figure that was once Robert Hill appears right in front of the window, palm cracking the glass. It makes a static sound, not unlike that of the television, and vanishes. In its place floats a black cube.</p><p> </p><p>Something tells Dale that the cube is important. He reaches through the glass and takes it. It’s small, but heavy. He cradles it in his palm, and sighs.</p><p> </p><p>The detective knows, deep down, that Rusty Lake is responsible for everything. And maybe, perhaps, it is doing everything in its power to call him.</p><p> </p><p>This is his normal now.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Rusty Lake is a weird, weird place so putting what goes on into actual words was difficult. I also haven't written in a while so Dale's characterization and the transitioning are kind of awkward. I was scared that turning the games into writing would make it boring, but it is what it is</p><p>Please remember to wear a mask to protect yourself and those around you.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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